


East of Eden

by SilverFlameAlchemist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Ancient Greece, Aziraphale can't use his sword, Gabriel is a dick, Gardens & Gardening, Gorgon Crowley, Gorgons (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Guardian Angels, Guardian Aziraphale, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt Crowley, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Monsters, Protective Crowley, Slow Burn, Song-inspired, Swearing, a different type of garden, bless him, crowley and his plants, monster hunting, this will likely be a massive fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverFlameAlchemist/pseuds/SilverFlameAlchemist
Summary: "There's a Monster terrorizing my gardens. I need you to kill it.""But why me?""You're a Guardian, aren't you?" He asked with the patience of someone who had none at all. "So, do some guarding!!"





	East of Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of inspiration was drawn from "East of Eden" by Zella Day.
> 
> The rest came from a plot-bunny that bit me while I was drunk in the shower one night, so here goes nothing.

The temple steps are gleaming in the sunlight, the soft chatter of business and the backdrop of lyre music drifting through the columns as Aziraphale approaches the bottom step, already fussing with the folds of his clothing, trying to get it to lay still and look more dignified. The winged pin on his chest also gleams, but it seems more comforting and familiar than the steps—being a Guardian has always meant looking after people, and he enjoys that, enjoys people, but now here he is at the temple and he remembers why he chose the people over the rest of his kind.  
  
He doesn't particularly like being in the temple—it's too loud in an echoey sort of way, and everything is just too clean. He likes his little house with his manuscripts and his scrolls and his little vineyard on the roof. He likes the clutter of it, the smell of the parchment and dirt and rain on the leaves.  
  
But he received a summons, and one simply _did not_ ignore a summons from Gabriel, and certainly not a summons from Gabriel, cosigned by Michael.  
  
He swallows his doubts and hurries up the steps, not making eye contact with anyone on the steps. A guard nods to him as he approaches, and leads him into the temple toward the pair of thrones at the back of the main chamber.  
  
There's incense burning in braziers along the wall, and he hears distant voices singing. There's no air moving in the temple, and the smoke from the braziers is oppressive and warm.  
  
The guard leads him to the feet of the throne, and he bows his head to Gabriel briefly before he stands as straight as he can and tries to look, if not dignified, at least not _terrified_.  
  
"I need you to slay a monster," Gabriel begins without preamble.  
  
"You need me to what?"  
  
Gabriel looks very put upon (or possibly just constipated, Aziraphale always had a hard time telling which was which with him).  
  
"There's a Monster terrorizing my gardens. I need you to kill it."  
  
"But why me?"  
  
"You're a Guardian, aren't you?" He asked with the patience of someone who had none at all. "So, do some guarding!!"  
  
"Well...what sort of Monster is it?"  
  
"No idea, everyone who's tried to get a look at it has turned up as a statue. Or just, never turned up again at all."  
  
"Oh. Well that sounds...tricky," he fiddles with his belt and looks at the floor. "You know, I don't really do any...slaying."  
  
"Then why do you have a flaming sword?"  
  
It really was an excellent question, and Aziraphale wished he knew the answer.  
  
"Spectacle?"  
  
Gabriel made a face like he'd drunk sour wine.  
  
"O-or, more reasonably, self defense?"  
  
"Right then! Go defend yourself from the Monster in my garden!"  
  
"Right, so I just...go slay this Monster and then...report back?"  
  
"Well I mean, bring back a trophy," Gabriel snorted, grabbing another decanter of wine and filling his glass. "Otherwise what's the point?"  
  
Aziraphale nodded absently, fingers on the hilt of his probably-only-ceremonial sword, "Right then, I'll just...go...do that, then."  
  
"Fantastic!" Gabriel clapped his hands together. "And when you get back, you can tell all of us the story, and we'll drink and eat, and have a party!"  
  
Ah yes. Gabriel's parties. All that food gone so completely unappreciated for the sake of a good time.  
  
"Sounds a treat," his lips twitched up but it wasn't a smile. "I'll...keep you informed, then."  
  
But Gabriel wasn't listening, already conferring with Michael about what sorts of food should be served at said banquet, and who to invite.  
  
Aziraphale gave a little half-bow of his head and left the hall, looking heavenward.  
  
Gods help him, he was going to die.  
  
The garden in question was located at the outskirts of the city, and by the time Aziraphale had made his way there, the sun was already low on the horizon, painting the sky in jewel tones. The garden had been walled up only recently, and Aziraphale remembered a time when it had been just an oasis in the desert, a little corner of paradise he had visited once or twice to investigate while he traveled and collected his scrolls and manuscripts.  
  
Two stone statues now stood at the gate, two guards both frozen as if about to strike, swords drawn and mouths agape, endlessly screaming.  
  
Aziraphale gulped.  
  
He had done some reading on various monsters he had heard rumors about, but none of them turned people to stone like this. Usually they just ate them and were done with it.  
  
He slipped into the gate, just squeezing through where the iron doors stood ajar, and peered into the cool shade of the garden.  
  
It was beautiful, full of vibrant flowers and verdant trees, the soft cry of birds settling down for the night and the whisper of water from somewhere deeper in.  
  
He took a quick breath to bolster himself and stepped further in.  
  
There were more statues inside, a woman frozen in dance, and four children running, arranged in a circle around her. The woman was wearing a crown of fresh flowers, and the children all had on scraps of bright fabric tied around them.  
  
They looked frozen in time, and Aziraphale made a quick loop around them to look them over. They didn't look scared, or angry (as the guards at the gate had), but more...serene.  
  
It would have been beautiful, if he hadn't known they had been alive, once.  
  
He clutched his sword a little tighter and moved deeper into the garden, heading toward what looked like the peak of a roof, just visible through the overgrowth.  
  
A stone pathway wound its way through the garden, starting next to the dancing statues and swirling down various paths that led through the flowers. Aziraphale kept to the middle path, heading toward the building, deciding he would start there and follow the path back out if he didn't find anything.  
  
He had to push aside the last few branches to get a clear view of what he discovered was a dilapidated temple. The columns at the front were cracked and dappled with age, twisting serpents wrapped around them in endless coils. The roof was off balance, and looked ready to fall in, and the steps were broken and caved in.  
  
With the same timid intensity of a mouse investigating what may in fact be a trap, Aziraphale picked his way up the steps and into the shade of the temple. A tiny stone altar sat at the very back of it, nearly empty but for some black feathers in a dented copper bowl. There was a tiny brazier of incense smoking weakly, softly-scented plumes curling against the ceiling.  
  
Something about the scene got under his skin; the careful arrangement but near abandonment of the altar tugged something in his chest and he fished for a moment in his robe before dropping a coin into the bowl with a little bow and a silent prayer to bring blessings on the place.  
  
He gave another quick look round, came up empty on monsters, and hurried back out, ducking under the foliage to find the path was suddenly missing.  
  
The stones that had been at the foot of the temple were no longer there, and in their place was densely packed flora that kept him from going back the way he came.  
  
"Oh for heaven's sake," he huffed, peering through the leaves to try and find a way through. "I just wanted to take a look round."  
  
"So you haven't you come to join the others?"  
  
He jumped as a voice spoke from the surrounding trees, sinuous and low, _dangerous_.  
  
"N-no!" He called back, turning this way and that as he heard a whisper of movement. "I-I was just...curious. I'm so sorry to have troubled you, I merely wanted...well I wanted to have a look around and then...then go home."  
  
"Then why do you have a sword?"  
  
The movement stopped, and from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could swear he saw a flash of something through the leaves. He didn't turn that way, but kept his eyes on the ground, remembering the statues by the gate.  
  
"Self defense?" He laughed, but it sounded like he had tried to cram it through a mountain first; all hollow and empty, even to him. "Look, I'm not very good at this, but...would you please let me go? I didn't mean to be any trouble."  
  
"You entered my temple without invitation."  
  
"Now look here," he straightened up, but his eyes never rose. "If you walked in a place and there was a path that led to an interesting looking building, wouldn't you follow it to see where it led? And if you say that isn't an invitation I will very much have to argue that it _is_."  
  
There was another sound, almost...like laughter? It stopped as suddenly as it started, and then the voice next spoke, it was closer.  
  
"And if I let you leave, will you stay away?"  
  
"I...I can't say I will, actually."  
  
"Good."  
  
He did glance up, then, confused and curious, and found the path was now quite literally laid out at his feet. It no longer curved or twisted, either, it was laid out straight toward the gate.  
  
"Your offering gets you out," the voiced hissed, practically whispering in his ear as _something_ came up behind him. "Next time, make it more interesting."  
  
There was a small shove to his back and he bolted forward, rushing to the gate. He made it through, slamming it behind him, and leaned against it as he caught his breath.  
  
"Well, that didn't go exactly to plan..."  
  
But, on the other hand, he wasn't dead or turned to stone, so it had certainly gone better than _expected_. And if that...thing...were the monster Gabriel had told him about, then...well, perhaps he could reason with it? There was no need to resort to _violence_, if he didn't have to. Gabriel just wanted it gone from his garden, how he got it gone was, rather nicely, up to Aziraphale.  
  
So maybe it hadn't gone exactly to plan, but, well... It certainly could have gone _worse_...  
  
Maybe this whole Monster-Slaying gig wasn't as bad as first imagined.  
  


* * *

It took Aziraphale two full days to figure out how to get another encounter with the Monster. The coin offering had been accepted, but obviously not _enjoyed_, per say, so a different approach would be needed.  
  
To give it another plant or fruit would be petty, or perhaps insensitive, given where the monster spent its time. And he doubted very much that it would enjoy any of his books (besides, he would be loath to part with one).  
  
Which just left one offering he could both give freely and with pride, which of course was wine from his own vineyard. Not much, perhaps, but he had made it himself, and he was very proud of it—and that was part of giving offerings, he thought; giving something of personal importance, even if it was something of little to no monetary value, was just as good as loads of money. Possibly even better, in this case, given the Monster's disdain for the coin.  
  
Gabriel had only communicated through messengers, thus far, and Aziraphale had been able to deflect his curiosity by stating that he was doing research before he faced the creature head on, which seemed to pacify him for the time being.  
  
Aziraphale had no idea what he was going to tell Gabriel if he asked for more information. He'd cross that canal when he got to it, he supposed.  
  
Meanwhile he was on Monster Duty, and that meant finding his way back to the garden and forcing the gate open and making his way to the temple again.  
  
It was easier to get to, this time, and he cautiously bowed before entering, depositing the bottle into the copper bowl with another bow of his head.  
  
"What's this?"  
  
The voice hissed from behind him, and shifting shadows licked at the floor.  
  
"I brought you wine—from my own garden. I made it," Aziraphale kept his eyes on the floor, the shape moving closer. "I thought... Thought you might like something you hadn't made yourself."  
  
A long, pale arm, tipped in black claws reached just into his periphery, plucking the bottle from the bowl and pulling it back out of sight.  
  
The cork popped and the Monster made a noise of assent.  
  
"It will do."  
  
Aziraphale would have argued, but this was a _Monster_ he was dealing with here.  
  
"I could bring you more, if you like," he offered instead. "I have a few more bottles ready."  
  
"Does that mean you'll come back?"  
  
Aziraphale came to a realization rather suddenly and unexpectedly, and his mouth fell open as he realized the monster sounded _lonely_.  
  
"I could, yes," he said softly. "Once you finish that bottle."  
  
There was a long moment of quiet, the movement of branches and birds the only sound until the monster hissed to him again.  
  
"Hold out your hands."  
  
He did, cupping them together.  
  
The bottle dropped back into his hands, empty. The cork, however, landed in the copper bowl with the other offerings, a memory of the wine that had been brought.  
  
"Oh," he chuckled. "So glad you enjoyed it."  
  
"I can't make any, myself," it admitted. "Bring more."  
  
"I'll see what I can do," Aziraphale chuckled again, delighted that this was working out in a way that didn't involve him beheading anything. "Is there...anything else you would like me to bring?"  
  
"Close your eyes."  
  
He did, without thinking about what a terrible idea that might be. He felt the Monster orbit around him, a long line of sinuous movement that circled him once, twice, before stopping at his back again.  
  
"You smell like parchment."  
  
It wasn't really phrased as a question, but Azirpahel treated it as one anyway.  
  
"I collect scrolls and books," he smiled. "I even restore them, sometimes."  
  
"Bring me one."  
  
"What kind?"  
  
There was another long pause before the Monster spoke again, and this time the voice was soft, the low hiss of its consonants almost imperceptible now.  
  
"Stories with happy endings."  
  
Oh. Well there weren't many of those, now were there.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he decided to be upfront about the whole conundrum. "But—well, we're not really known for our comedies, you know."  
  
There was a snort, and Aziraphale bit back a snicker.  
  
"May I...look around your garden?"  
  
The wine had gone down a treat, maybe he would get lucky with his request, too.  
  
"Don't leave the path," the instruction came easily, like it had been waiting for him to ask. "Don't touch the statues."  
  
"I'll be careful."  
  
There was a rush of movement and when Aziraphale peaked over his shoulder, the Monster was gone.  
  
The path had moved, as well, and now ran from the side of the temple and looped toward the back of the garden before vanishing into the overgrowth.  
  
Aziraphale could still feel eyes on him, however, and imagined that the Monster was keeping an eye on him from just out of sight.  
  
He bowed again to the altar, saying another quick prayer, and then stepped onto the path. He moved slowly, taking in each of the different plants and speaking fondly to each of them.  
  
"Oh my, how lovely," he smiled at a low-growing bush covered in bright blue flowers. "Just look at you, outshining all your tall friends. Keep it up."  
  
He swore he heard more laughter, but he ignored it in favor of whistling back to a bird that chirped at him curiously.  
  
"Yes, good afternoon," he greeted it. "Good flying weather?"  
  
It cocked its head and took off.  
  
"Mm, must be," he mused.  
  
That time the laughter was unmistakable.  
  
He chuckled back, under his breath, and clasped his hands behind his back as he meandered down the path.  
  
The garden was tamed into quadrants, from what Aziraphale could tell, tall trees at the middle where they shaded the more delicate plants and could still soak up the most sun. Prickly plants were all clustered together, rose bushes nearly as big as he was and blackberry bushes that walled off a small fountain from view; he could still hear the water, though, bubbling softly somewhere out of sight.  
  
He wandered the path for the better part of an hour, the sun just slipping past the wall of the garden and beginning to fade into night. As he reached the children's statues again, however, he realized he had been about to turn toward the back of the garden again before he suddenly found himself deposited there at the entrance.  
  
"This might be terribly rude of me to say," he began, addressing the woman at the center of the circle. "But I wasn't quite finished looking around."  
  
"You should get home before it gets dark," the voice spoke again, from a shadowed well in the wall to his left. "I hear there are monsters about."  
  
Aziraphale snorted, fighting the urge to glance that way, "May I ask a question, then, before I go?"  
  
"You may."  
  
"What happened to them?" He nodded to the statues.  
  
There was a long stretch of silence; so long, in fact, that Aziraphale nearly gave up hope that he would get an answer. But then it came, whispered so softly and sorrowfully, that it nearly hurt to hear the words spoken aloud.  
  
"My curiosity."  
  
"Well, that simply won't do," he muttered. "Being punished for being curious. What a fool idea."  
  
There was silence in the shadows, now, but Aziraphale didn't mind. He nodded to himself and made his way out the gate, smiling as he went.  
  
Perhaps he could bring two bottles, next time... He had a tidy little collection put away, and bribing a Monster out of a garden seemed a much nobler enterprise than, say, a party of Gabriel's.  
  


* * *

He managed to find two comedies, buried in a pile of manuscripts he had swiped from a festival for Dionysus, and read through them with a glass of wine that evening while he pointedly ignored the tightly wound scroll from Gabriel.  
  
It was sealed, which meant it was important, and he didn't want to bother with it until he was inebriated enough to ignore whatever jibe he had written about Aziraphale's competency or weight.  
  
After his 3rd glass, however, he finally pried the thing open and sighed to himself as he looked through it.  
  
In very rude terms, it told him to hurry the hell up.  
  
He threw it into his fire and slouched back in his chair, gusting out a sigh as he closed his eyes. If Gabriel wanted results, then he would have to play by Aziraphale's rules.  
  
He wasn't about to kill a Monster for being curious and protective; that would just be silly! After all, hadn't he himself been curious and protective before? Hadn't he wanted company and friends before? Hadn't he been lonely once?  
  
He settled himself in his chair, comfortable and warm, and dozed off...  
  
_He was standing in a room of mirrors, all reflecting his face back at him. Behind the mirrors, something moved, slow and sinuous. He tried to call out, but no sound left his lips. In the mirrors we could see black scales and flashes of red, long arms tipped with black claws reaching through the circle to get him, but they always fell short. He spun and spun, trying to catch a glimpse of the thing beyond the mirror, but could never quite see it. A voice sounded, the one from the garden, and it whispered his name over and over, drawing him closer to the edge of the circle. He was nose-to-nose with his reflection, breath fogging the glass, when two arms reached past the mirror to grab his shoulders, digging into his robes, clutching him, as the voice whispered "finally."_  
  
He jerked awake, a name on the tip of his tongue before it melted away, the remnant of something he once knew, but now gone.  
  
He shuffled from his chair to his bed, grabbing a jug of water on his way and taking a swig.  
  
What a strange dream. It did give him an idea though...  
  


* * *

He brought the books and the bottles of wine, and entered the garden with a polite clearing of his throat. Just in case.  
  
He made his way to the temple again, found it even faster than last time, and set the bottles on the altar along with the books, and then knelt on the little broken step that lead to the dais.  
  
"Hullo?" He called out. "I-I just realized I never got your name. Seems a bit rude, and I apologize."  
  
"You never gave me yours."  
  
"Oh, see, that is very fair," he chuckled. "My name is Aziraphale."  
  
"They call me Crowley."  
  
"Crowley?" He repeated, a familiar taste to the name coming back to him.  
  
"Aziraphale?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was just...well, I wouldn't want to mispronounce it."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
He fidgeted with the last thing he had brought, and one of the books vanished from the altar.  
  
"I had a dream last night about—well, that's not important; but it did give me an idea."  
  
"Did it now?"  
  
"Yes, well, I was thinking. This whole--talking to you while not looking at you. Seems a bit...well, to be honest, rude. But I was _thinking_ that if I looked in a mirror, then it wouldn't be fatal for me."  
  
"That's a terrible idea to get wrong."  
  
"W-well, yes, I suppose it would be, but...I would be willing to, uh, risk it. If you were."  
  
"It's no risk to me."  
  
"You risk having another statue to put somewhere."  
  
There was another comfortable, close-fitting silence before the Monster spoke.  
  
"Alright. But you should pose, just in case this all goes pear shaped."  
  
"Oh, I like pears," Aziraphale smiled, standing and striking what he hoped was a rather regal pose. He held the mirror aloft and looked into it, tilting it until he caught sight of the figure behind him. "Oh lord!"  
  
The Monster raised an eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat.  
  
"You don't...look like a Monster."  
  
He's far too handsome to be a Monster, with sun-dappled skin and scarlet hair that brushed past his shoulders and danced like fire in the sunlight. His eyes are molten gold, going just barely green at the edges, and scales of black and red are speckled over his collarbone and shoulders. He's bare-chested, and wiry, taller than Aziraphale and certainly more imposing.  
  
"Don't I?" And the voice is lilting, curious, a second eyebrow rising to join the first. "Perhaps I should try harder, then."  
  
"Oh, no, please don't," he hasn't had drawn his sword, and he doesn't particularly want to. "Maybe we could just...talk about this?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"You lurking in the garden."  
  
"Lurking implies I'm not meant to be here."  
  
"Well, technically speaking, you aren't?"  
  
"This was my garden before it was anyone else's," and there's a hiss to his words now, a sound of moment that drags over the stones of the temple as he shifts and draws himself up. "I'm just taking care of what is mine."  
  
"Oh," and he realizes now that Gabriel is a liar and a cheat and really should have given him all the information to begin with. "So you...you live here, then?"  
  
He blinks, once, slowly, and Aziraphale _feels_ the disapproval.  
  
"Right, of course."  
  
"I have no intention of leaving," he leans forward, arm brushing over Aziraphale's as he picks up a bottle of wine, flicks the cork out, and sighs. "So if that's why you're here...you might as well leave."  
  
"Well I would love to let you go on doing precisely what it is you have been doing, but, well," and he watches the Monster's throat bob as he takes a long drink. "I have a job to do, you see."  
  
"Draw your sword and do it, then," he challenges, and his eyes are daggers, his words dripping with venom. "Kill me and claim your stolen land."  
  
"Oh don't be so dramatic," Aziraphale nearly turns to look at him, but thinks better of it. "Look, I don't want to hurt you, and really I think Gabriel has it coming if he's stealing other people's things, but that still leaves is with the quandary of how we settle this."  
  
"You could tell Gabriel you killed me, let him get what's coming to him."  
  
"I couldn't lie!" He protested. "Besides, he wanted a trophy... Made a fuss about having one, actually."  
  
"Did he say what?"  
  
"He wanted your head."  
  
"He's not the only one," Crowley snorted into the bottle, taking another swig.  
  
Aziraphale kept watching him in the mirror from the corner of his eye, unable to look away for more than a few seconds. He looked so human, eyes and scales aside, and Aziraphale wondered what made him a monster.  
  
"So, do you have a plan, then?"  
  
"No, I'm afraid not."  
  
The silence stretched taught as a canvas, painted by birdsong and whispering bushes, finally broken by a soft clink of the bottle resting back on the altar.  
  
"You still want to finish your tour of the place?"  
  
Aziraphale had to drag his gaze away from the clawed hand that slithered into his periphery, swallowing back the urge to let his eyes roam more.  
  
"I'd love to, if you would let me."  
  
"Might as well, before it all goes to Hell."  
  
"Much obliged," he managed a smile and a quick nod. "Would you...care to join me?"  
  
Crowley dips his head to one side, like he's shaking water out of his ear, and his eyes narrow.  
  
"I thought you might...want the company," he finished with a hop of his shoulders. "I'm not...planning anything, I promise."  
  
"I'll follow behind you, shall I?"  
  
"Might be for the best, but, whatever you prefer."  
  
In all his innocence, Aziraphale really did want Crowley to be comfortable; but there was absolutely a hint of impure curiosity that may or may not have given him a brief, flickering mental image of this Monster's backside, and where else those scales may be, but he would deny that until the day he died and into the afterlife as well.  
  
"Go on, then," he gestured with his chin, and the path opened up to his right, snaking through the plants. I'll follow."  
  
Aziraphale gave a quick nod and started off down the path, finding this side of the garden had more blooming plants than the other. Bright flowers and fragrant blossoms all bobbed to him in welcome as Crowley spoke to them in a language Aziraphale didn't actually know (which was, honestly, very impressive).  
  
"You talk to them?"  
  
"I keep them in line."  
  
Aziraphale snorted faintly, catching a glimpse of Crowley leaning in to whisper to a particularly fat bloom, the white petals opening up to him as his lips whispered over them, and the tiniest hint of a smirk caught at the corner of his mouth and tugged it upward.  
  
Aziraphale very quickly looked away and found his mouth was suddenly very dry.  
  
Almost immediately, he heard the gentle laughter of water, and rounded the bend to see an enormous fountain with tiers and tangents and crystalline water.  
  
"Oh! Would you mind if I—" he half turned, caught himself, and then chuckled at himself the way someone who's told a joke that didn't land might. "May I have a drink?"  
  
"Help yourself."

He slipped over to the fountain, setting his little mirror down on the edge as he leaned over and took a drink, sighing as the cool water passed his lips. In the reflection of the fountain, he could see Crowley hovering nearby, and chanced a quick glance back at him when his head was turned toward one of the bobbing fruit trees.

Aziraphale froze, half-bent over the fountain, turned just slightly to peek at Crowley from under his arm, the pose held under the pretext that he was dampening the back of his neck, but his hands had ceased to work and now he felt his whole _body_ lock up as he caught sight of the trailing, coiling, thick, serpentine tail that tapered down from Crowley's waist, black and red scales smattered over the arches of his hips and down his spine, welding the two halves together in a monstrous combination.

_Demons were all like us, once_, he remembers his tutor at the temple telling him, The Metatron laughing for the first time since Aziraphale had known him, the first time in the history of the temple, The Metatron laughed as he showed his class the picture in the book, the aberration of man and monster, fused by dark magic and dealing with Those Below. _But now they are nothing but abominations; cursed to go through life in solitude._

But Aziraphale had wanted to argue. He had wanted to ask _why_ they were like that. Why they were hurt, or abandoned, when the temple taught that all things should be loved and treasured, all things under the sky and below the sea—all of Their creatures should be loved and treated with kindness...why not these too?

“Aziraphale?” The voice sounded concerned, but in the way an actor would sound concerned while he tried to feign courage by telling his lover that there was nothing to fear even as he bled out on the other side of the door. “Aziraphale!”

“You're a _Gorgon_,” he breathed, finally dragged back from his memories as he turned to look Crowley in the eye, unflinching as tears welled to the corners of his. “Of _course_. Oh, you poor thing.”

“Stop, you'll turn—bugger!” Crowley turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut.

Aziraphale let out a tiny little laugh, shaking his head, “it's alright, Crowley, you can look at me—you won't turn me to stone. I promise.”

“You can't know that,”

“I can,” he squared his shoulders and folded his arms. “We're from the same stock, you and I—I promise you it won't work on me.”

Crowley peeked at him from between his fingers, and Aziraphale looked him in the eye with a smile.

“See? You can't turn me, Crowley, I'm a Guardian.”

“Oh, _Gods_, you're a _what_?”

“A Guardian,” he repeated, his chin jutting out. He looked like a 12-year-old insisting he be referred to as a teenager. “What's wrong with being a Guardian, anyway?”

His tail coiled and tightened as he retreated into himself, drawing away from Aziraphale.

“You should leave.”

“Oh,” he glanced to the ground, to the hilt of his sword, back up to the squirming Demon. “Do—do you want me to leave?”

Crowley didn't answer.

He orbited around Aziraphale, keeping his eyes on him as he drifted around the courtyard. Aziraphale held still, keeping an eye on him without turning his head, the long trail of his tail shifting like a shadow against the pale flagstone.

“If you're a Guardian, then what are you guarding?”

Aziraphale thought of his books, of the plays and scrolls and stories, of the _knowledge_ he stored and protected and _guarded_.

“Lots of things, I think,” he managed at last, as Crowley rose up and over him, looming and endlessly shifting. “I—I collect books and stories, and information. I read. I translate and...I...guard those stories and information and knowledge.”

He looked slowly up into Crowley's face again, and caught a glimpse of a retreating smirk, eyes soft and molten gold before his jaw tightened and he drew up further, tightening and coiling and _readying to strike_.

“Then will you guard my secret, Aziraphale? Will you guard the knowledge of my garden. Of my nature.”

“Oh, I, uhh,” he hadn't been expecting that.

Crowley tipped his head to the side and arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth rising too, “you?”

“I suppose, I, uh, could.”

Crowley smiled like a snake, “oh, I am glad to hear that.”


End file.
